“What the f**k are you doing?”
“It’s this chicken dish that— ”
“Why?”
“You’re the one who invited over some of your seconds so I could meet them— without warning me beforehand, by the way. Thank God for Amanda.”
“I invited them because I wanted you to know who these twatwaffles are in case you need something from them— not to play house and entertain them.”
“But they were hungry. And I love to cook. And I never get to do it for anyone.” It’s always been a bit of a pipe dream of mine. Showing off my culinary chops. Feeding others. I enjoyed food a lot, before, and became good at preparing it, but never got to do much with those skills.
In my ideal, remarkably unremarkable future that will never be, I’d go to a job I love, come home, make dinner for someone whose face was in my head an
